Dio Vuole
by Microcrane
Summary: [[ may be extended ]] He knew something wasn't right; it never was, after all. But that itching feeling, that itching feeling that it was something so obvious always got to him. Who was he really?


She didn't know what she was getting herself into when she began to see the blond man daily. She knew he was dangerous, she knew he wasn't trustworthy, but there was something about him that drew her towards him.

Almost as if he were hypnotizing her. But she didn't mind, she was happy. Her parents approved of him, and he seemed to genuinely love her.

He spilt everything to her, with that calm demeanor of his that she loved so much. And despite it all, she knew, that despite her feelings towards him, he did not feel the same towards her. They both knew this, and yet he did nothing to turn her away. She felt touched, she felt so happy, but she did her best not to overstep his boundaries. She never held it as an expectation for him to return her affections, and it seemed he appreciated that.

Frankly, with the way he treated others, she was surprised he even allowed her close to him for as long as he had. But it seemed he thought differently of her than he did with the countless other women he had surround him. She had witnessed him take their blood, kill them, and yet, after all of this, she was still alive. She didn't know if he was simply playing with her like he seemed to with the others, but for her own sake she told herself he was not.

It was a cold February nineteenth when it was cold, she was cold, but he was not, as always, and she simply stayed by his side as she always did. It was that cold February nineteenth that he embraced her as he did to all the other women, but not cruelly. He was kind and sweet. He left her alive, he allowed her to see another day. With that, she convinced herself that she belonged to him and him alone.

Months passed, and her belly grew by the day, and by November, her home was filled with the sounds of a baby's wails, and the tears of a happy mother. The star lay on the baby's back, and his father spent time with him. It was unlike what he had done to all the other women and the few other children - it was so alien to see him like this, but she was overjoyed.

The boy, named Uriah, managed to spend less than about only six months with his father before he was killed, slain by a young man with a black cap and a golden chain. The woman fled with her son, afraid for her and her child's life, taking a flight back to Japan to live with her brother. She moved in beside another young single mother, one with black hair, pale skin and a four-year-old with a (what the boy dubbed) "cool" hairdo.

After school, the older one would go visit the younger boy and they would play together, laugh together, and sometimes he would teach the young one what he had learned that day in class, albeit not much. It was when they were sitting in the bath together that the older boy noticed something as he washed the younger boy's back. "Oh!" he had cried, "we have the same star-thing!"

Uriah looked at the older boy, confused and curious. Was this the truth?

"See?" the older boy turned around and pointed to his back, "it's the same!" The copper-haired one blinked in wonder.

"So it is," he murmured and poked it carefully, drawing a giggle from his friend; it tickled.

"Does that mean we're brothers? Cousins?"

The younger boy tilted his head before humming. "Cousins? What's a cousins?"

The older boy would teach him all sorts of things, he seemed to know everything. He told Uriah why he styled his hair in such a way, he told Uriah about his father who was gone, he trusted him completely despite his young age. He was far from having a large mouth, after all.

"I was wondering..." The black-haired boy turned around to face Uriah. "Have you ever met your daddy?"

He just shook his head and the younger boy frowned. "Nu-uh, I haven't. Have you seen yours?" He shook his head slowly, looking back down at the scribbles in his sketchbook.

"Momma told me Daddy was around when I was real little, but he left before I could think," Uriah explained and the older one frowned. "Momma said Daddy was taken away by a mean Japanese man with a black cap."

"What was his name?" The older one asked, and the copper-haired boy thought for a moment.

The boy paused. "It's ... , I don't like saying his name. It's hard."

"Well, I dunno my dad's name, but I'll let you know if I find yours!" The two smiled before falling into a comfortable silence and went back to drawing. Stars and hearts littered the page, one in purple, one gold. It couldn't be too hard now that he knew the father's name, right?

Little did they know that around five years later, that very name would be the one that brought the town so much trouble.

When Uriah turned five, he and his mother moved again to live with his grandparents in another city, a whole city split into two halves by a river running through the center. Things were just fine, things were completely fine. But it was only one year later that the fire struck, consuming all it touched and burning it into a crisp.

She screamed in pain, desperately shouting for someone to rescue her, rescue her son, to please, please rescue her child. He was only six. He clung to his mother, tears streaming down his face, ice cold in contrast to the smoldering heat his mother was carrying him into.

She called his name - she called the blond haired man's name, over and over, begging, begging for him to come and spare their son's life.

But she fell, she fell just like everyone else. She was numbed to the pain, only just barely managing to pull her son out from under her and smiling.

"Uriah...Uriah it's going to be alright..." Blood fell from her lips in a harsh cough and the boy flinched but didn't let go of her hands. He repeated her name over and over, softly, gently, as if trying to wake her from a dream - or was he trying to wake himself, he didn't know. "You'll make it, Uriah...just walk that way," she pointed towards the darkness of the other side of the city, untouched by the flames. "I'll be right behind you."

He didn't believe her at first, he stared at her with such sad, heartbroken eyes. She wished with all her mind and soul she could have embraced him again but she didn't have the strength.

"M-Mom - "

"Go!" She urged and he took a step back. "Go, or I'll never forgive you! Run! I'll be behind you, just run!"

Uriah opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. And with that he whirled around and sprinted, crying harder than before, crying harder than when he had to leave his best friend, crying harder than when his mother told him his father was dead, crying harder than when he fell and broke his knee, crying harder than when he was born.

It felt like forever, like forever and a half, like forever and another forever after that before he finally made it past the deadliest flames, past the bodies laying on the ground, screaming, whispering, murmuring, reaching out for help, ones he couldn't save. By the time his legs almost gave out, he knew his mother wasn't coming after him.

He knew he was alone. No one was going to survive. His pace slowed to a slow limp, golden eyes now devoid of life. It wasn't worth it.

He had no one. Not his best friend, not his father, not his mother, not his grandparents, nothing. But for some reason he felt himself being drawn forward, no matter how many times he told his legs to give out. They kept shrieking at him, demanding he stop, but no matter how much he tried, he kept moving.

The gentle grip of _something_ wrapping around his legs and arms kept him moving, nudging him forward. The something was the only reason he survived, the only reason he made it out of the fire. He wanted to drop dead, he wanted to join his mother and father, not be the only one left standing. But that something only let go of him once he was just out of the reach of the fire, and he fell harshly to the ground, the stones against the back of his head being the only reminder that he was still conscious.

Just before he thought he could rest in peace, he felt a hand - a flesh and blood hand - reach beneath his head and support him. His dull eyes came into contact with a pair of black orbs, just as flat and dead as his own.

"Thank you..." Was the man thanking him? "Thank you so much..." Why was he thanking him? "Thank you for being alive..." That happiness he felt, he was jealous of the man. That happiness and euphoria, he wanted it. He wanted to feel it for himself.

With newfound purpose, the boy closed his eyes, knowing he would not let himself die. Everything he had known slipped away, between his fingers. He didn't even try to catch them again. Perhaps it was best if he forgot.

"The hospital gave you a name since there's no record of you they can access right now."

The boy looked up blankly and the man continued.

"You're my son now," for some reason it felt so _wrong_ , so _so wrong_ to hear that coming from this man. "So we have the same surname.

"Your name is Shirou Emiya."


End file.
